Run
by squaredplanet
Summary: AU/AH. It's not every day you meet your twin in prison. And it's also not every day that you've both been framed. A short story told in 2nd person.


**Chapter One: Riot**

**A/N: **So I know I most definitely have another story in the works. But this came up. I don't know where it came from, and honestly, it'll be my first time ever doing a crime/criminal story (cross my fingers it's okay) and told from 2nd person. It should be short, like _Filling in the Blanks_.

Plus I've been really keen on writing an all human fic :D

_**Warning**_: _Swearing (though when I say that I really only mean the F word, cuz well I pretty much make my characters/the narrator swear any other word. Though I won't be spewing it everywhere, for sure.) Pairings? Idk. That's all I can think of._

* * *

"I'm…," you begin, though you stop yourself short.

You gave up protesting a long time ago. But it's a habit, one you still need to break. Verbally, at least.

They won't believe you. They haven't for the past months they've had this case—the past months that's literally ruined your already messed up life—and there's no point in wasting your breath.

You're innocent, though, and you tell that to yourself because you are.

You ignore the guard who has just rhetorically spoken to you and you keep going. The corridor isn't too long and before you know it you're facing another grey faced guard, simultaneously sizing you up and looking at the chart in her hand. She nods her head, and there's a buzz. The woman pulls at the ring of keys on her hip and flips through it. Roughly she grabs your wrist and unlocks your cuffs. She doesn't look at you again but you already know to follow the guard who'd been dragging you through halls this entire time. The metal door to your right slides open, you pick up an awaiting pile of beddings and a pillow, and you head in.

You take a deep breath in. _You're nineteen, Elena. You can do this. _

Though, as you walk through, you know nothing can prepare you to spend what should be the most youthful and best years of your life in a terrible place like a women's maximum security prison, Port Hill Penitentiary.

As you follow the officer in front of you she leads you through another corridor that has a window to the main prison hall. It's big, its capacity is one thousand-eight hundred and fifty six, and its current population is one thousand-four hundred thirty one. No, you take another step, make that one thousand-four hundred and thirty _two_. You read all that somewhere once and you shake your head at your photographic memory. Now isn't the time be stating facts. Not when you're headed down to what feels like hell.

The officer leads the way through one last door before you're actually in the prison hall. Women loiter about, and the sunset from the high barred windows form shadows that remind you of scenes you've only seen in movies. The ceiling is high, supporting three floors of prison cells all lined up against the walls.

Though it's loud and noisy you begin to hear distinctive things that can only be directed to you. Or _about_ you, that is.

You hear whispers as you pass by, but they don't make sense. Not to you at least.

"She's out?" someone close enough murmurs.

"I can't believe this," comes from someone else.

They talk like they know you. Like you did something wrong, though _wrong_ might not be the right word exactly, because hasn't everyone there done something wrong? You shake your head and think, _'Stop looking at me.'_

You also notice that there are a good number of others that nod their head or offer a friendly grin in your direction.

Though either way you wish they would all just not. Up a flight of stairs, walking down the metal balcony that passes several open cells and several loitering women, you're shown to your own cell. The place you'll be living in for the next so and so years.

"It's almost lights out. Go to sleep, you'll have orientation tomorrow," the guard says mundanely, her bored expression evident.

When she leaves you're left in the open cell by yourself. Its small, you note, consisting of a yellowing sink, a shiny white toilet that looks new and a bunk bed that takes up half the space. You've been in smaller places, so you can't complain. You hold the blanket and pillow in your arms. The bunk at the bottom has two pillows and two blankets, folded, but no one is around.

You drop your stuff onto the top bunk.

"Kat, they let you out early?"

The voice appears behind you and you turn, seeing a blonde girl whose hair is in a braid. She's pretty, you think, though what catches you is her accent. She doesn't look the least bit criminal, more like a typical blonde cheerleader from your old high school you used to be friends with. And to top it off, she looks your age too. What's a girl like her doing behind bars?

"Huh?" is what you manage to say because you don't understand. Let out? You'd just been brought in. "What are you talking about?"

The blonde ignores your question and squints at you. She steps into your cell, and touches your hair, "How did you manage to straighten your hair?"

"It's always been straight," you shake your head, and though you're not trying to be rude you want some time alone, "Are you my cellmate?"

The girl looks confused and then she looks behind her and then back to you. "You're joking, right?"

A bell rings before you can answer and there's an incoherent shout outside.

"Come on," the blonde shakes her head and takes your arm, pulling you to stand outside where everyone seems to be standing in front of their cells too. She raises her brows, "We'll talk okay?"

You have no idea what she's talking about but you're too tired to correct her at the moment. She goes to stand beside another blonde who nods her head at you and it seems other than being friends with whoever they think you are, you're also neighbors. Oh, how awkward will it be when this person came back, whoever she is.

An officer walks down the space between prisoners and their cells, calling out names in a roll call.

"Yousef, Nahar, Pentton, Smith," it seems they all go by last names and the woman in uniform is three cells down before you begin to hear her clearly. She continues, "Anderson, Isles."

She stops in front of you, looking at the clipboard in her hand.

"Pierce, it says here you finally got a roommate. Where's," she glances at you and then flips the paper in her hand, brows furrowing, "Gil-bert, Elena Gilbert?"

"I'm Elena Gilbert," you say, and from the corner of your eyes both blondes turn briefly to show their confused glares. How much do you really look like this other girl? You're a little curious now, if not annoyed by it.

The guard, H. Kilton—according to the stitched name tag on her uniform—stares at you incredulously. She has a harsh expression on her already naturally scowling face. You've been there well below an hour and already you feel the tension from her like she hates you. Though that may be directed towards whoever you supposedly are, you hate her back already.

"It's late. I don't have time for this. I know you're not used to it," she sounds sarcastic, "but here cellmates have the responsibility of knowing the other's whereabouts during lights-out roll call. Now it says here she's been signed in. You're wasting my time. Where the fuck is Gilbert?"

"I," you emphasize, "_am_ Elena Gilbert. Now if you just stop wasting your _own _time then everyone can get on with their lives."

You sort of don't know where that comes from because you've always been known to be reserved. It may just be this woman's expression or the notion that she's already judging you because of who she thinks you look like, but you do know that if she wasn't in uniform you wouldn't hesitate to land a blow. You stand by what you said, she is wasting her own time.

There's a crack that sounds before you feel your jaw slide under your upper teeth. The left side of your face suddenly stings and you place your hand on your left cheek.

"That'll teach you some manners," you hear her say, and you waste no time of your own to twist around and bring down a right hook squarely on her face.

Just as she falls you push her down with a kick and you jump on top, hitting her over the face as she tries to claw at you. You've been around too many violent law enforcers and violent people in general to know just where to hit them with the least retaliation. Before you know it you're being pulled to your feet and youre thrashing. Someone else replaces you, beating on H. Kilton and chaos ensues.

"Calm down! Calm down!"

It's one of the blondes, the one that spoke to you, and when you start doing as she says you find yourself sitting on your feet, both blonde one and blonde two giving you looks. You look at your bloody knuckles and you make yourself calm down.

"What the fuck was that?!" blonde two spoke. She doesn't have an accent, and she manages to look both concerned and confused.

"Look," you begin, its best you clear things up now. And besides you hate that they're assuming you're someone else, "I'm not…," you pause because you aren't really clear on this person's name, "I'm not who you think I am."

Blonde one feels your forehead, and you realize the scene behind her, to your side, all around you. There's a whistle on the other side of the prison but it's soon drowned out by shouts. Everything looks like the hell you pictured earlier and you're sort of mortified. Did you just start a riot?

"Your temperature is normal," blonde one frowns, sharing a look with the other, "what the bloody hell happened in solitary? Did they accidentally bring you to the mental ward?"

Now you frown, so this woman was in solitary. But mental ward? Was she as blonde as she looked?

"No, I'm not who you think I am. I'm new. My name _is _Elena Gilbert and I did just come in today," you say, frustrated.

They glance at each other again. If you really do look a lot like this girl then you must sound so insane right now.

Between their stare on you, you realize the noise has died down. A woman, a red head, gathers the attention of the three of you. She says something and then motions over the railing to the center of the prison hall. You look over. It seems everyone involved has come together there, forming a circle around figures you can't see very well from this angle. Those who hadn't participated still stood in front of their cells, leaning over railings and watching. The blondes are behind you so you have no choice but to lead the way down the stairs and through the crowd.

It parts where you walk and soon you see the middle. The officers, four of them, are in the center of the floor. They're battered and bruised and you're not exactly sure what you're supposed to do. You catch the eye of H. Kilton and she glares at you through bloodied teeth.

"You're going back," she spits out. Your eyes narrow, she had hit you first. Though you wonder if your retaliation was the reason _why_ the short riot started, or if everyone had just wanted to start a spur of the moment rebellion.

There's a buzzing at the door you came through earlier that leads out of the prison and more than two dozen uniformed men and women run through batons and fire arms in hand.

"Get back!" the one who leads them shouts. They form a circle and pushes away the prisoners to the walls and to the stairs, all of whom are too wary of getting shot. You step back as well.

The rescuing guards circle the four wounded and over her shoulder the leader addresses them, "Warden wants to know what happened. Who started it?"

H. Kilton points a shaking finger at you. And only you.

* * *

**A/N: **Just a little short story. Though my priority is _Petrova _so the updates wont be a frequent thing until I'm done that. Lol well if people are interested, I'll give it a try

Any feedback would be awesome! :)


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